


The Morning Routine

by MeredithBrody



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Multiple Sclerosis, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 16:00:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2197950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeredithBrody/pseuds/MeredithBrody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jed reflects on what he and the hundreds of thousands of other MS warriors do every morning as they wake up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Morning Routine

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if I've mentioned on here, but I actually have Multiple Sclerosis, and therefore having a character who has it, who suffers from it, is truly the greatest thing ever. A lot of this fic is me rambling on.

Every time he woke up it was the same routine, the same mental question he asked himself every time. What was going to be the body part that was stubborn today. He'd long ago learnt that this was just a part of the disease, just one facet of what he had to face. Thankfully his was quite slow and mild compared to some he'd met. Over his presidency he'd met 25 year old women who had to live using crutches and wheelchairs. Each one of them far more badly affected by this disease than he was.

But still he knew he joined the 2.5 million people all around the world who battled this disease in waking up and taking an internal inventory. Most days he was fine, caught no problems suffered no ill effects. Some days he had small patches of tingling or numbness, but they were just the effects of old lesions that had decided to cause him trouble that day. Those he could ignore.

The days he hated were the days when he woke up and he knew something was wrong, he knew that that day was going to be an uphill battle. Those were the days he'd try and make sure his schedule was as light as possible, but that wasn't always possible when being the leader of the free world.

Multiple Sclerosis, that was the name of his opponent in this internal warfare, and most of the time he would win. But there were days when the MS beat him down and make him reconsider how hard he wanted to fight this. Pain medication and the disease modifying treatments that Abbey kept him on helped, but on the bad days they were just a reminder that he couldn't do it alone, and maybe that he shouldn't do it alone.

Today was one of the middling days. There was a patch of numbness on his stomach that he would ignore. He knew there were things touching his skin there but there was no feeling, no sense of what it was. All he could tell was the pressure of something there. His fingers were tingling, too. Not numb, and they certainly weren't going to hamper his ability to write or sign things, not today at least. But they did tingle and the sensation was unpleasant, almost as if his entire hand had fallen asleep and he was just now getting the pins and needles sensation of the feeling returning.

Thankfully, there was no pain, and no confusion. The former had become a constant companion, the latter had yet to trouble him, touch wood. He had learnt to ignore pain, and to pretend that it didn't bother him at all. Hearing from those men and women who also had this disease at the occasional fundraising meetings where he got the chance to he learnt that was common, most people with MS learnt to hide their suffering from those around them.

Most of them did that so their friends and family wouldn't worry. He did it so that the leaders of the world wouldn't worry. There was an order of magnitude difference between him and those other brave people who faced this disease with, frankly, a lot more courage than he had done.

His time in office was nearly done, he knew that. He could count, and he knew that the staff would be scattering soon, off to run campaigns for the next batches of politicians who would run for this office, for this position. They would likely not face the same challenges he had done. They would face challenges, anyone would, but they wouldn't face these challenges. His challenges were unique.

Nobody in the world could understand exactly what he had done over his two terms in office, and he was certain that in time there would be stories told about what he had overcome. But nobody could say for certain what he had battled every day, because the battle was private, was silent. He didn't want to advertise his morning ritual, because nobody needed to know.

For today, despite the small patches of troublesome nerves, he was doing well. He would be able to go about his day without worry or fear. He would make sure he surrounded himself with the best people to deal with his disease as well as his office. The long and short of the story was that nobody could battle it for him, he had to do it himself. It had taken a decade, but he knew now, he had to fight it himself.

But he'd accept the help every once in a while. Nobody could fight alone.


End file.
